


Bar Helix

by odalisque (fifteenstitches)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crack, First Date, It was meant to be a joke and then it just ran away from me, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 08:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fifteenstitches/pseuds/odalisque
Summary: It’s just your average Friday night date; there’s attempted murder, the food’s named after sex positions, Fusco is there.





	Bar Helix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paenteom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paenteom/gifts).



> Please look at [this tweet](https://twitter.com/emilyhughes/status/947263646941376512) first, this is what sparked this whole stupid joke.
> 
> Thank you [lordaxxington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordAxxington/pseuds/LordAxxington) for beta-ing!

They’ve had nine numbers come up in the last five days, and even Harold is starting to feel the disadvantages of running a secret operation that didn’t take state-sanctioned holiday into account. He’s had a stress headache nagging at his temples all day, and the successful rescue of that morning’s number had done little to ease the pressure. Harold closes his eyes and shakes off the exhaustion. Of course it never stops. Relentlessly, the city lives. The world turns. The Machine spits out number after number, and he and John scramble to keep up. 

John. If Harold’s feeling the pressure here in the library, he can’t imagine how John’s feeling, flying as he is from district to district, taking any number of injuries—though thankfully not bullets—in the process. Harold hasn’t seen him for over 48 hours, something that shouldn’t make him feel as unsettled as it does. 

Ah. Harold decides not to think about that. Harold has in fact become adept at filing thoughts of that nature into a mental file marked ‘No’ for the last few months. Well, most of the year, really. It’s a big file.

“I don’t get it,” Fusco is saying, his voice scratching in over the microphone. “Why would someone want to kill a 21 year old bartender?”

John’s voice, sardonic. “You haven’t seen the menu.” 

On the CCTV, Harold watches as the number, Conor Doyle, shakes cocktails into existence. The man has one of the largest digital footprints Harold has ever seen, with regularly updating accounts on every major social networking site, and most of the minor ones too. On a separate screen, Conor’s Instagram page refreshes every 30 seconds, comments from followers flooding in. 

One comment catches Harold’s attention; there, underneath a picture of Conor’s latest cocktail creation—something he calls a Take A Fucking Sip, Babes—is a comment that stands out from the rest. _Grenadine is sweet, but revenge is sweeter. See you tonight_. Harold clicks on the user. The profile is empty. 

“Mr. Reese,” Harold says, already pulling the email address from the site database, “I think I’ve found our perpetrator. River Carmalt, 24, shared a class with Doyle at the New York Bartending School.” 

He hears the buzz of John’s phone through the microphone as the photo of River goes through. 

“He’s here.” John moves, heading towards the kitchen and out of range of the CCTV. 

Harold swallows, heart jumping. How many times a week does Harold listen to the sound of John’s voice cutting out in a rain of fists hitting flesh, gunshots? Yet here he is again, worry spiking in the pit of his stomach. If anything it's getting worse.

Harold calls Fusco. “Your perpetrator is in the kitchen, Detective. I suggest you make an arrest.” 

“What about the other guy?” 

“I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Fusco looks round and spots the CCTV. His expression is one of deep resignation. “Of course you will.” 

“Finch,” John says. 

Harold hangs up. “Everything alright?”

“I’ve got him. They were rivals in college—Doyle stole his girlfriend.” 

Harold blinks. It’s been a while since they’ve had such an amateur motive. 

“Doyle has a drink at the end of his shift; Carmalt has a bottle of lye in his pocket. Not the best mixer.”

“No,” Harold says, glancing over at Doyle’s Instagram. “Though who knows what the next trend will be.”

“Any more numbers come up?” John asks. In the background, Harold hears Fusco make the arrest and lead Carmalt out into the night. 

“Thankfully not.” Harold takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Feel free to go home and get some well-earned rest.” 

“Actually,” says John, “I was—Why don’t you come and have a drink?”

Harold’s monitors flicker as they always do, Doyle’s Instagram still refreshing, the CCTV footage still running. “A drink?” 

“Yeah. It’s what work colleagues do after a difficult week.”

“I’d hardly call you an office drone, Mr. Reese.”

“It’s just round the corner, Harold.”

Harold very quietly takes a moment to file this entire conversation in the denial section of his brain. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll be right down.”

*

Bar Helix is exactly the sort of place Harold hates. Loud music, sleazy interior design and a clientele who would look at home either in the casting office for a protein shake commercial or dancing at a male strip club. Harold can’t help but think he’d prefer to take John home for a drink, before he stops that thought in its tracks with the mental equivalent of a sledgehammer. 

“Hey there. What can I getcha?” Harold looks round, straight into the eyes of their oblivious number. Conor Doyle looks much younger than he really is, an effect that’s only magnified by his wide baby blues and frosted tips—yes, actual frosted tips. Harold supposes he’s sporting the look ironically.

“I love your suit,” he’s saying, running an admiring eye over Harold’s jacket. “Is this Armani?” 

“I ordered their caviar service,” John deadpans from over Harold’s shoulder. “I hope you like Pringles and tater tots.”

Harold closes his eyes. 

“Just a white wine, please,” he tells Doyle. 

“Oh, there’s no wine here.” Doyle smiles at him brightly. “We only serve the drinks on our menu. But don’t worry,” and he winks, lowering his voice is if sharing some incredible secret. “They’ll blow your mind.”

*

  
They take a small booth in the corner, as far from the bar as possible.

“I think I’ll have ‘an interesting single man’,” John says, gazing over the top of the menu at Harold, his expression inscrutable. “What can I get you?”

Harold looks down at his own menu to avoid making eye contact. “I’ll have…”

This is the worst night of Harold’s life.

*

When John returns with their drinks he’s balancing a tray on his arm. 

“This,” he says, putting it down to reveal an array of highly questionable dishes, “is the worst bar in the world.”

Harold gives him a tight-lipped smile and tries to pretend he hasn’t just been listening to John order “hot sex on a platter”.

“Your safe word,” John says, passing him a cocktail, and Harold gives up. Across from him, John sips his dark amber drink, and Harold allows himself to notice the way John’s lips brush the glass, how his throat moves as he swallows. 

“How is it?” he asks, and John smirks. 

“As single men go, I’ve known more interesting.”

Harold really is incredibly tired, and it’s this, he thinks, that makes John’s voice sound so husky, like a pool of warmth Harold is ready to drown in. 

He takes a sip of his own drink. It’s disgusting. “Why would anyone waste single malt in a cocktail,” he murmurs, and John smiles and looks away, his eyes crinkling in easy amusement. 

*

Neither of them can bring themselves to touch the food, and Harold is taken aback by how hard the alcohol hits him. The air seems to swim around John, the bar lighting casting his features in dreamlike pinks and blues. When John brings him a second drink, placing a napkin carefully beneath it and turning the glass so that the novelty curly straw faces Harold, part of him wants to laugh at the seriousness of the gesture, the way John does it without thinking. 

A deeper, more questionable part of him imagines John taking the same care while doing something else. He’s too tired and too drunk to shut that thought down. Opposite, John sips his drink in silence, his poise perfect, the strength in those shoulders held flawlessly still. The light in his eyes, which look towards Harold like he’s waiting, just waiting, to be asked— 

“I think I’d better go home,” Harold says, “before—”

John is on his feet immediately, an impressive move given the cramped size of the booth. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, fine,” Harold says, hearing his own voice as if from far away. “Thank you for inviting me to this… bar.”

“It’s terrible,” John says flatly, alcohol revealing the sincerity of his words. “Next time we should just go to my apartment.”

There’s a small silence as they both consider this statement. 

“I just meant,” John says, “Whatever you’d like, you know.”

Harold turns it over in his mind. Alcohol fogs his thoughts, boiling everything down into simple, cheerful concepts. Concepts like: John’s apartment. Concepts like: an invitation.

He stumbles slightly as they leave the bar, and John steadies him with a hand that Harold holds on to for longer than he needs to. John’s palm is rough and warm, an anchor. 

“God, Harold,” John says lightly, “If I’d known you were this much of a lightweight I’d have stopped you after one.” 

They look at each other and Harold knows with perfect clarity that he’s present in every aspect of John’s existence. In each stitch of John’s suit and in every fresh scar, from the sheets that John sleeps on to the bullets in his gun, John’s life is facilitated by and saturated with Harold Finch. 

He can’t ask for this too. He can’t, no matter how much he wants it, no matter how much they both— 

And oh, John thinks he doesn’t know. John thinks Harold is oblivious to that look in his eye, that look that says John would give him anything he asked for. That gratitude. Harold doesn’t deserve such a gift.

He wonders what John is thinking now, almost sober, staring down at Harold as he sways on the kerb. He senses the same steady loyalty he always gets, underscored with something else—regret? 

“It would be taking advantage,” Harold says, his tongue thick in his mouth, and John says, “I know.”

There, then. Cards on the table, and the table overturned. 

They stay a little longer, just looking. Just the sounds of the city and the lights, and a fine mist of rain just starting to fall, and John’s eyes.

“Goodnight, John.” The words come out wreathed in gentleness.

“Goodnight, Harold.”

He feels John watching him as he turns the corner. He doesn’t look back.


End file.
